Clearly I’ve been a bit MIA for the past few weeks. I’ve been getting my mental health under control (among other things). I’ve still managed to cultivate and maintain my new hobby of thrifting and reselling some of my vintage finds during my depressed state. I’ve worked every day, gone to the gym semi frequently, maintained a fairly clean house. I’ve taken care of my son (on my own obviously, I know no other way). But this time something is different about the way I’ve handled my depression. It kind of worked out in my favor, it kind of fell into my lap. I decided to try a small dose of medication. It’s done wonders to bring me back.
Willingly going on medication is a big step for me. This stems back all the way to my teenage years. I experienced something extremely traumatic the summer prior to my senior year, and for the rest of that summer I was self-destructing. I quickly lost weight because I wasn’t eating. I was drinking a lot. But one day in particular scared me. I hadn’t eaten for 2 or 3 days. I had been drinking. When I got home, I of course was alone. I decided to go into the medicine cabinet and drink NyQuil from the bottle. I was having nightmares about what had happened to me. I remember drinking from the bottle and thinking, “I wonder if I won’t wake up”. I layed down in my bed and slept until the next morning. I felt awful. I remember by the time I woke up my mom was home. I begged for her to take me for food. I didn’t know how long it had been now since I ate anything, 2, 3, 4, days? I didn’t feel well. Food was the only thing on my mind. She did take me, but she told me how awful I was the whole time we waited. By the time I got my breakfast sandwich I could only eat 2 or 3 bites. She of course was not happy that I begged for food I then could not eat. She wasn’t shy to let me know that either. Something about that breakfast snapped something awake inside of me. I got home and behind the closed door in my room I scarfed down the cold breakfast sandwich from the take home box and layed back down in my bed. I knew something was wrong with me mentally, but I didn’t know what to do for help.
By the time school started things just continued to get worse. Two or three weeks into the school year I remember fighting aggressive dark thoughts in my head. I tried desperately to believe they weren’t there. I finally got the courage to call my mom when she was at work. I couldn’t bring this to her face to face. I said, “I think I might be depressed. I think I might need medication”. She snapped at me. “It only gets worse so you better toughen up.” And she hung up the phone. That same feeling that snapped me awake at breakfast that morning in the summer now snapped awake again after this conversation. I knew I was on my own. And I knew that if I ever went to get on medication I would be weak in her eyes. I was now determined to prove her wrong.
I became very good at masking, finding different cocktails of subtle substances, different addictions (both “good” and “bad”) throughout my 20s and into the first couple years of my 30s before my complete mental breakdown at 33 years old. I had been running from my own mind my whole life. I had always been shamed and told how I felt was wrong, especially if it inconvenienced my mom in any way or would make her look bad. I didn’t even realize the magnitude in which her behavior impacted me until the past few years while I’ve been healing. I had no idea how much I had been slowing killing myself because of how little she cared about my mental health.
When something bad would happen in the past, it would cripple me. I would maybe run to substances, I would desperately find a way to cope with the familiar pain inside me. I had never learned how to heal so I never even began to process the trauma I had been through. But now it’s different. I’m different. When I had my mental breakdown that version of me died. It’s like I was starting over. Now, I can’t even tolerate my mom’s passive aggressive text messages. I don’t understand how I used to take every word she said to heart. It’s like a switch flipped on. I’m so grateful for it.
So a few weeks ago my son’s father blindsided both of us. He’s done something similar in the past. This had crippled me before. Was I upset this time? Oh, yes. I was filled with rage that I couldn’t shake. I tried everything I could think of. A week passed. Another week. I still couldn’t move through the feelings. I just so happened to have a follow up doctor appointment scheduled last Friday. It was unrelated to my mental health, but she knows all about my breakdown. At the end of the appointment she said, “Is there anything else I can do for you?” I had been near tears the entire appointment. I said, “would I be able to start a small dose of an anti-depressant? I’ve been struggling a bit lately.” It was that simple. It’s been about a week now. If I’m being honest, I haven’t felt this good in months. It was just smallest dose, the act of me finally asking for help was a breakthrough of it’s own. It amazed me how easy it was. That act alone showed me how far I’ve really come.
The Girl Without A Face 